


Never Doubt

by Joodiff



Series: Joodiff's adult WtD fic from FFN [3]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Bath Sex, F/M, Massage, Oral Sex, PWP, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace tries to enjoy a relaxing bath. Boyd has other ideas.</p>
<p>
  <i>Adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Doubt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gemenied](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/gifts).



**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N & Dedication:** _This one was specifically requested by Gemenied. Her request, her fault. Written for her, and dedicated to everyone who enjoys a nice bit of PWP. The MA rating is there for a reason, people. Enjoy._

* * *

**Never Doubt**

by Joodiff

* * *

 

It’s an indulgence, and Grace knows it, but the day has been long and difficult and quite frankly she doesn’t care what Boyd might have to say about what she’s done to his elegantly simple and unquestionably masculine bathroom. If he has any sense, he’ll keep his mouth firmly closed on the subject. Unfortunately, where Peter Boyd is concerned neither sense nor sensitivity is a given. If he says the wrong thing in the wrong tone she suspects she might actually cry, and although it’s the last thing she wants to do, it will almost certainly be far more effective at getting through to him what sort of day she’s had than any amount of bickering. Not that Grace Foley is the type of woman to cry easily. She isn’t. But sometimes…

On cue, the bathroom door opens and Boyd ambles in, barefoot and insouciant, half his shirt buttons unfastened, a bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses in the other. Submerged up to the neck in warm water and scented foam, Grace watches the way his gaze slowly travels the room before settling on her. She waits for the reaction. He raises his dark eyebrows at her, but all he says is, “Candles…? Incense…? Really?”

“Aromatherapy,” Grace informs him. “You should try it.”

The reply is as succinct as it is anticipated. “Bollocks.”

With a sigh she says, “That’s what I like about you, Boyd. You’re so open-minded about things.”

If he bites back, she will probably cry, as predicted. But it won’t really be about him and his brusqueness; it will be about the high stress of the interminable day that’s thankfully finally coming to a close. To her surprise, Boyd doesn’t say anything. He looks at her for a moment, the flickering candlelight reflected in his deep, dark eyes, and then he turns his attention to pouring the wine. Red, because she prefers it. He doesn’t speak until he hands her one of the glasses, and then he says, “You shouldn’t let it bother you.”

Grace accepts the glass with a nod. “I know.”

“It’s not personal, Grace.”

“I know,” she repeats. He’s trying to be kind, she understands that, but she’s too raw for it. Quietly, she says, “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Attempting to discredit witnesses – especially expert witnesses – is standard procedure for the defence,” Boyd says regardless. “Everyone knows that. And it’s hardly the first time you’ve been given a rough ride in court, is it?”

“You’re not helping,” Grace informs him, sipping the wine. Heavy, full-bodied, expensive. It mixes surprisingly well with the thick scent of sandalwood and vanilla permeating the humid bathroom air. “God, I’m so tired. Sometimes I really wonder why I still do this job.”

“Because you’re bloody good at it,” Boyd says promptly. There’s a pause, heavy with meaning, and then he adds, “I told you not to get involved.”

Sharply, she retaliates, “And I told you there was no conflict of interest.”

His frustration is more than clear as he snaps straight back, “For God’s sake, Grace. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about you; your health. You’re taking on too much too soon.”

For a moment she gazes quietly at him. There’s a hint of challenge in his expression, a dash of impatience and a lot of unsuccessfully masked concern. He does his best to hide it, but she’s well-aware of how much Boyd worries about her. How afraid he is that they will find themselves plunged back into the dark days of hospital appointments and treatment cycles. How afraid he is of the frightening, malign disease that could so easily return to wreak havoc with the delicately-balanced union they’ve painstakingly established over the last few months.

Too tired to continue a conversation that could easily spiral out of control, Grace shakes her head. “I don’t want to fight with you, Peter. Not tonight.”

Boyd holds his hands up, palms towards her, part placatory, part dismissive. “Fine.”

She watches him for a moment longer, slightly wary, slightly amused, but he says nothing more. Spontaneously, she says, “Are you going to stand there forever, or are you going to get in?”

Just one eyebrow rises this time, slightly quizzical, slightly sly. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

Straight-faced, she says, “Just take your clothes off, Boyd.”

He chuckles, completely unfazed by the bold instruction and starts to unfasten the remaining shirt buttons. Unabashed, Grace watches the quick, efficient way he strips, watches the easy, insolent flex of muscle under his skin as he moves. The years may well be stacking up, but he’s still very easy on the eye and she doesn’t bother feigning disinterest in the proceedings. It delights her, sometimes, the knowledge that she’s still as powerfully attracted to him as she ever was – quite possibly even more so now she has complete license to be. She realises that he’s grinning at her, and at her answering look he says, “You’re so obvious, Grace.”

“And you like it,” she points out, perfectly aware of just how healthy his ego is.

Boyd’s bathroom has several advantages over hers, not the least of which is the big, deep roll top bath in which she is lying. A bath she already knows will easily accommodate both of them. Though the sheer amount of water he’s likely to displace may be a problem. He is not – in any way – a small man. Naked and blasé, he moves the wine to the corner cabinet where it can be easily reached from the tub, takes her glass from her and sets that aside too before gesturing at her, “Shift up then.”

Not bothering to complain about the autocratic order, Grace sits up, giving him room to step into the water behind her. As Boyd settles and she moves into a more comfortable position the water level rises ominously, but stops just short of disaster. It’s a very deep bathtub. And somehow she doubts she’s the first woman to have shared it with him. But that’s not a thought Grace has any intention of dwelling on. She rests her shoulders back against his chest and allows herself to relax in the warm, fragrant water. It’s comfortable and comforting, and she can’t help closing her eyes. The temptation to doze is strong, and perhaps she succumbs to it, because the sudden sensation of his hands on her shoulders makes her jump.

“Don’t think I’m carrying you to bed if you go to sleep,” Boyd warns her.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, resting her head against his shoulder. He doesn’t reply, but his fingers go to work, gently kneading the tired, tense muscles in her neck. His touch is deft and practised, and despite the warmth of the bath, Grace can’t stop herself shivering slightly. If Boyd notices, he says nothing, but either her reaction or the feel of her skin is definitely having a predictable effect on him. Which only makes her shiver again as she becomes more and more aware of the increasing male hardness trapped between them. She’s not predisposed to protest about his lack of self-control – she finds the unequivocal response of his body to hers far too flattering to think of complaining. He’s definitely breathing just a little faster, too. Also very flattering.

There’s trace of huskiness just discernible in his voice as he asks, “So… just how tired are you?”

Knowing Boyd can’t see her expression, Grace allows a tiny grin. Sometimes he is just so predictably, wonderfully masculine. Maybe she shouldn’t be as charmed by it as she is, but until just a few months ago she’d quite reasonably assumed that as a single woman of a certain age being the focus of such acutely male interest was – sadly – a thing of the past. Stretching slightly against him, she replies, “Depends what’s on offer.”

One strong hand releases and curves around her waist, palm coming to rest flat against her stomach, thumb gently stroking her skin. He kisses her neck gently, the soft bristle of his goatee beard less abrasive by far than the harsher rasp of evening stubble. Again, his voice is husky, but indulgent, too. “Anything. Everything.”

Interesting. Boyd is as varied in his moods in their intimate moments as in everything else. Sometimes impatient, sometimes fiery, sometimes gentle; always intense. Tonight he seems unusually tender, oddly mellow, as if he’s reacting on an unconscious, instinctive level to her mood. Grace rests her hand on the arm curved around her, appreciating the warmth of his skin, the softness of the short, wet hairs on his forearm; the latent, sinewy strength she can feel beneath her fingertips. Male. Very male. She says, “Why are you here, Boyd?”

There’s a momentary, bewildered pause followed by a deep, ironic chuckle. “It’s my house, Grace. I live here.”

Infuriating man. Grace refrains from sighing. “You know what I mean. Why are you here, with me?”

“Oh, God,” he says, sounding simultaneously tolerant and exasperated. “Is this going to be another one of those irritating ‘I’m so old and you’re so handsome’ conversations?”

Infuriating, but incredibly perceptive. When it suits him. Wryly, she says, “Did I ever actually say that you were handsome?”

Again, he kisses her neck, a very tender caress of his lips. “Admittedly not. But I live in hope.”

Grace can’t help laughing quietly. There’s something endearing about how brash he can be about such things. Peter Boyd is an attractive man and he knows it. There have been many times when Grace has darkly wondered if it is her lot in life to repeatedly fall for completely inappropriate men and Boyd is by no means the first swaggering, charismatic scoundrel to have caught her attention; but a tiny part of her secretly hopes that he will be the last, one way or another. They are so different in almost every way that it’s almost laughable, and yet there’s always been a bond between them, as if they’ve always subconsciously known that they would complement each other perfectly. He has strength and tenacity, she has compassion and insight.

His attentions become a little more heated, a little more focused, the other hand slipping from her shoulder and starting to wander purposefully. His mouth has become hot and exploratory on her neck, and Grace gives in to the impulse to moan, knowing the sound will only encourage him. It does; his teeth close on her skin, not hard enough to make her flinch, but with clear intent. Gentle he might very well be, but there’s always an edge of assertiveness in him, one she knows very well indeed. Boyd likes to be the one in control, likes to be the one leading the age-old dance and tonight is not the kind of night she’s going to challenge him over it. Sometimes it’s good just to relax, to let someone else take charge.

Against her skin, he murmurs, “I want you.”

The raw simplicity of it always catches Grace by surprise, always causes a deep physical reaction, a fluttering, aching response that is as pure as it is primal. It erases so much, that involuntary response, banishes fear and insecurity, pushes common-sense and decorum aside and leaves her needing him in a very elemental way. Desire, attraction, want – a powerful mix of basic, animal instinct that cuts easily through the cultured veneer of sophistication and makes her momentarily forget everything that doesn’t matter. Grace turns into him, not caring at all about the dangerous way the water responds to her movement – after all, it’s his bathroom floor that will get soaked, not hers. Boyd looks more amused and surprised than concerned, and then she can’t see his expression at all as she closes on his mouth with hers.

It’s a kiss that starts gently and very quickly becomes deeper, harder, far more demanding – on both sides. The atmosphere in the room has changed, become far more highly-charged, far more carnal, and they reach for each other simultaneously, Grace closing her hand around his aggressive hardness as he eases a hand between her thighs. This is something they both know well, the intimate touch and feel of each other, something that only they share, something that isn’t him or her, but _them_. The kiss goes on, lips and teeth and tongue meeting, exploring, rousing, an exciting counterpoint to the clever, sensual motion of hands and fingers, and Grace isn’t sure if either of them really has an advantage over the other. She groans into his mouth as his fingers open her, as one digit, then two ease into her, the ball of his thumb stroking against her quite, quite deliberately. She’s caught in the mix of sensations, thoroughly ensnared in the desperate feedback of highly-stimulated nerve-endings, inside and out.

Big as the bathtub is, there isn’t much manoeuvring room, and when Grace breaks away from the kiss she can’t help laughing at the look on his face. Quite clearly, Boyd is weighing his options, trying to decide if there’s any feasible way he can take her there and then without risking a major domestic calamity. Impetuous he may be, but Grace seriously doubts he’s willing to risk a significant flood in the comfortable, elegant living room below just for the sake of novelty. But then again…

“Oh no,” she says, perfectly able to read his thoughts. “You’re not serious? Peter…”

He growls, withdrawing his hand and placing it on her hip, nudging her into moving. Reluctantly, Grace releases her grip and lets him guide her, not at all surprised to find herself once again with her back to him as he shifts position and attempts to brace himself against the slippery enamel of the bath. Pointlessly, she complains, “This is a really stupid idea…”

“You think I care?” Boyd’s voice says, close to her ear. There’s huskiness there, and something else, something that isn’t going to be easily thwarted.

Grace gives up trying to argue. After all, he seems to know what he’s doing, and if everything goes horribly wrong it won’t be her paying to have the ceiling below re-plastered. There seems to be a lot of water swilling around, a lot of foam forming peaks on the barely contained waves, and suddenly everything is very exciting – the water, the heavy aroma of sandalwood and vanilla, the flickering candlelight. Him. His recklessness, his impatience. His hardness, pressing against all the right places as he uses his hands on her hips to guide her onto him. A moment of resistance, exquisite in its own way, and then her body is opening to him, accepting him. Boyd shifts his hips, ever-impatient to be deeper inside her, and yet another dangerous wave threats to escape the tub – but neither of them cares. A final push, a final grunt and he’s there, as deep inside her as he’s ever been.

Absolutely intentionally, she tightens her internal muscles, squeezes round him, and the resulting groan makes her feel triumphant, gloriously empowered. Boyd may be younger than she is, he may be extremely attractive to other women, but at that moment it’s Grace who has the upper hand, and it’s Grace who can dictate the terms. Revelling in it, she asks, “Good?”

The answer comes as a deep moan, a rasp of, “Oh fuck, yeah…”

He’s not a man to ever mince his words. But there are certain times when Grace wouldn’t dream of castigating him for it.

Boyd starts to rock his hips, one hand on her breast, squeezing gently, palm rubbing against the hard peak, his other hand much lower, caressing and stroking. It’s good – it’s very good – but again, Grace finds herself ridiculously concerned about the potential repercussions of what they’re doing. There’s already a lot more water on the bathroom floor than there should be.

“Relax,” he mutters urgently in her ear. “C’mon, Grace…”

It’s not going to happen, she realises. Not for her. It’s novel and it’s exciting, but it’s a little too awkward, a little too uncomfortable, and ironically the friction is just a little too dry, a little too harsh as the all-encompassing water works against her. For Boyd, it may very well be a different matter, but he seems to be struggling, too, swearing irritably as he finds everything he tries to brace against is just too slippery.

It’s difficult not to laugh when he finally – and very predictably – loses his temper with the whole risky, unstable business. When she glances round and sees just how thunderous his expression is, Grace can’t suppress her laughter any longer. It’s just too hilarious a situation.

“Fucking great,” he growls at her. “I’m glad you’re finding it so bloody funny. Whose stupid idea was this?”

“Yours,” she points out, still laughing. “Give it up, Boyd… We’re just too old for this sort of thing…”

“Bollocks are we,” he says succinctly, hands back on her hips to lift her away from him.

“What are you doing?” Grace asks as they are abruptly separated. “Oh, God, you’re not going to have a tantrum are you? Peter…”

His hands are abruptly on the sides of the bath, and the powerful muscles in his shoulders are briefly and sharply delineated as he pushes himself up, finds purchase with his feet and finally stands. Grace has a brief and very striking vision of long lean limbs and interestingly located male genitalia, but before she can take sneaky advantage of her position, Boyd is out of the bath and out of range, water running down his skin in rivulets. It may be something to do with his height, but there are times when he isn’t altogether the most well-coordinated of men. This is one of those times. Off-balance, he collides with the corner unit, and though the bottle of wine stays upright and intact, both glasses tip, adding the heady scent of red wine to the moist, aromatic air. Yet more irate cursing follows, and Grace simply lies back in the slowly-cooling water and lets him rage. It’s often the best way. If the years have taught her anything about Peter Boyd, it’s that he finds shouting deeply therapeutic.

“Finished?” Grace eventually asks when the storm dies down to muttering and growling.

Too late, she sees the look in his eyes. Far too late. She’s already protesting half-heartedly as Boyd grabs her wrists and hauls, but that doesn’t stop her aiding and abetting by finding her feet and standing up. She’s pretty sure she knows what he’s got in mind, and she’s not altogether opposed to the idea. But she continues to protest on principle, more volubly when she sees him dip his shoulder in preparation for the final heave. Too late again. She’s out of the tub and over his shoulder, discovering that the idea is far more exciting in theory than in practise. The reality is unquestionably rather uncomfortable, and she takes the opportunity to land a hefty flat-handed swipe against his flank. One that is roundly ignored.

“Very funny,” Grace says, a little out of breath. “All right, Boyd, you’ve proved your point. You’re a big strong caveman. Very impressive. Now put me down.”

“I don’t think so,” Boyd says, unexpectedly mild again. “Look at the state of my bathroom.”

“Down. Now.”

“No.”

She could attempt to fight him, of course, but there doesn’t seem to be much point. In a friendly sort of scuffle Boyd will always win, and if things become less friendly he will release her immediately. So Grace settles for complaining continuously as he carries her out of the bathroom and across the landing.

“Oh, the bedroom,” she says sardonically as he pushes the door open. “How very original. And what are you intending to do with me now?”

Apparently not bothered by the fact that they are both still dripping with water, Boyd paces across the room and dumps her unceremoniously on the bed, a very feral, wicked sort of mischief far too obvious in his eyes. “Guess.”

It’s not a difficult guess. But in the event, Grace is wrong. She thinks Boyd will pounce, and pounce he does, but not in the way she expects. He moves a lot faster than she anticipates, and she finds herself dragged to the very edge of the bed, her thighs suddenly, inexplicably resting on his shoulders as he kneels on the floor. And the eyes… the eyes are still just as wicked, still just as gleeful, but they are blazing, too, and it’s the sight of those dark, wild eyes just as much as his obvious intention that makes her heart start to race in earnest. For a moment Boyd grins, a savage sort of grin that shows a lot of teeth, and then he lunges.

There’s no delicacy about it, not at first. He simply devours her, his head low, his arms hooked firmly over her thighs, pinning them to his broad shoulders, absolutely preventing any chance of escape – not that escape is a thought prominent anywhere in her mind. Not that anything other than sheer sensation is prominent anywhere in her mind. Someone is moaning and crying out softly, and Grace is almost embarrassed when she realises it’s her own voice she can hear. Without thinking, she reaches down and buries her fingers in his damp hair, twisting hard into it to hold his head. Boyd doesn’t seem bothered, but he changes tactics, replacing the full-on assault with long, deep strokes of his tongue that make her squirm and gasp and swear softly.

Despite the resistance of her hands, he momentarily surfaces, grinning. “Any more complaints?”

Grace shakes her head, manages a faint, “None.”

“Good,” he says complacently, and ducks his head again.

She knows he won’t show her any mercy, knows he won’t let her go until he’s reduced her to quivering incoherence, however much she begs and pleads and writhes. Boyd will push her and push her, not allowing any respite, regardless of how much she tries to get away from him. Which, in her opinion, is absolutely the best justification for simply enjoying every damned minute of it. So she does. And she thanks her lucky stars that he is every bit as lascivious, enthusiastic and uninhibited as she so often suspected in the past that he might be. And every bit as proficient.

He licks, he probes, he sucks and bites softly; he explores with lips and tongue and blatantly uses the roughness of his beard against her sensitive skin. Grace gasps and tightens her grip, pulling handfuls of his hair as she aches and moans and curses and pleads with him to finish it. If there was any part of her mind still capable of rational thought, she might wonder if she would even recognise herself if she could step outside her body and gaze on the scene. She is calm, composed; intellectual. She’s intelligent, sophisticated, mature. She is not the sort of woman to hold a man’s head between her thighs as he strokes his tongue hard against her wet, hot flesh. She is not the sort of woman to wantonly cry out, or beg him for the release that is so tantalisingly close. Only she is. Of course she is.

Her muscles start to go into spasm as she gets closer and closer to the dizzying apex; her heart thunders in her chest and her breathing becomes even faster, even shallower. Boyd doesn’t miss the signs, applies himself to a very strong, very steady rhythm, one that never seems to fail; nor does he stop as she starts to shudder violently, her back arching off the mattress, her hands tangling even more desperately in his hair. No, he keeps on with long, practised strokes of his tongue as she cries out with the intensity of the release ripping through her body; he stays with her through the convulsive ecstasy of it, only backing off as she slackens her grip and slumps bonelessly, her heart hammering, her breath rasping as she struggles for equilibrium.

It takes several long moments, but eventually Grace slowly opens her eyes. Boyd is looking straight back at her, half his face in shadow, the other half lit by the light spilling into the bedroom from the landing. His expression is smug, no doubt about it. Smug, amused and speculative, as if he is very calculatingly considering his next move. Maybe just because she is watching, he runs a hand slowly over his beard, the implication quite deliberate. Grace doesn’t need the reminder – she can smell her own scent in the air, tightly combined with the notes of sandalwood and vanilla still clinging to them both. The mixture combines into a heavy, carnal scent that is very far from unpleasant.

Boyd leans down again, this time kissing her belly softly, as if in final salute. There’s a flattering throatiness in his voice as he says simply, “Beautiful.”

Calmer now, Grace eases back, reclaiming enough room on the bed to relax in a very tranquil sort of way. Softly, she says, “Come here.”

He does, arranging himself alongside her, apparently as relaxed as she is. Which can only be an illusion, given how hard he is against her thigh as they move into closer contact. Unselfconsciously, she kisses him deeply, tasting herself on his lips, in his mouth; his response is immediate, unreserved. Seeking with one hand, Grace locates her target and closes her fingers around the solid thickness of him, amused by the way the simple touch makes him kiss her harder. She allows it and then pulls back a fraction to murmur, “ _Quid pro quo_ , Boyd?”

He chuckles, low in his throat. “Not this time.”

Genuinely surprised, she says, “Really…? Are you feeling all right?”

His expression is wry. “Much as I’d love you to put that lovely mouth of yours to work…”

Understanding, she teases, “Ah, ha. Someone is having self-control issues.”

“Shut up and spread your legs, Grace.”

Releasing her grip on him, she complains, “Oh, for God’s sake, Boyd… Decorum, at all?”

He grins at her, deeply wicked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You want me to pretty it up a little?”

“It wouldn’t kill you, you know,” Grace says tartly, but she’s well-aware that the bluntness has everything to do with his odd sense of humour and nothing to do with actual boorishness. In retaliation, she puts a hand on his chest and pushes hard. It doesn’t have much effect – he’s a lot heavier than she is. “You can be so crass.”

The grin doesn’t fade. “Now I’m confused. You want me to fuck you, or not?”

“Boyd,” she complains again.

He looks back at her. “Grace.”

When Boyd gets the devil in him, he’s impossible to deal with. Generally, it actually amuses her almost as much as it infuriates her, but she’d never admit as much. He’s still grinning. Grace sighs. “Fine. Would you like me to just lie back and think of England, too?”

“Whatever does it for you,” he tells her. He moves his hips against her. “All right, all right. I get the message. You’re very beautiful and I’m very horny; if you’re lucky it’ll all be over in about thirty seconds flat. Think you can grit your teeth for that long?”

This time, Grace can’t help laughing. The mood is changing again, losing some of its raw, carnal edge in favour of humour, affection and affinity. Lust tempered by love. He kisses her, suddenly very gentle again; gentle and sensuous, no longer so fierce, so demanding. Age has its advantages, the ability to slow the pace right down just one of them. An idea is germinating in her mind, and she leans up on an elbow to say, “Hold that thought.”

“What?”

“Stay right there,” she instructs him, getting off the bed. Switching on one of the bedside lamps in passing, she adds, “I’ll be right back. Behave yourself while I’m gone.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Boyd says lazily, rolling over onto his back and putting his hands behind his head.

“Of course you don’t,” Grace says, heading out onto the landing, the polished wooden boards cool beneath her feet.

The bathroom is a mess. The black and white tiles are wet, odd puddles of water collecting here and there; the air is thick, humid and highly-scented, and the candles have nearly burned down. The antique mirror over the sink is running with condensation, there’s still water in the bath and red wine on the floor. There will be irritable complaints later from the master of the house, Grace just knows it. Ignoring the devastation, she collects the wine and the glasses, locates and palms her primary objective, then takes a moment to extinguish the candles. The chaos will merely annoy him. Inadvertently burning his house to the ground is another matter entirely.

When she returns to the bedroom, switching off the landing light as she goes, Boyd doesn’t seem to have moved, is still lounging on the big, wide bed, expression one of mild interest. Grace holds up the wine bottle and the glasses. “Sustenance.”

“Excellent.”

She holds the small plastic bottle in her other hand up. “Entertainment.”

“Do I even want to know?”

It’s her turn to grin. “Roll over.”

“Why?” Boyd asks suspiciously. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Just do as you’re told, there’s a good boy,” Grace instructs, putting the wine and the glasses on the bedside table. Evidently, he is still suspicious, but at the look she gives him, he slowly obeys, rolling onto his front. The ensuing growl makes her chuckle.

“You can laugh,” he complains. “Damned woman, you’ve absolutely no idea. Lying face down with a hard-on? Not comfortable, Grace. Not comfortable at all.”

“Is it my fault you’ve got a hard-on?”

“Stupid bloody question.”

She settles back onto the bed, opening the little bottle. “Just relax and enjoy it, Boyd.”

“All this aromatherapy bollocks is giving me a headache,” he mutters as she pours a little of the oil into her palm. “C’mon, give me a break. Do I look like the sort of man who wants to go around smelling like some French tart’s bloody boudoir?”

“Stop moaning,” she tells him, going to work on his shoulders. His skin is very smooth and the oil warms quickly and despite all his complaints Boyd becomes very pliant under her hands. Oddly, Grace is surprised at just how intensely erotic the feeling is as her palms glide over him. The muscle beneath his skin is relaxed until he abruptly flexes his shoulders, and then she can feel his bullish strength quite plainly. She’s certain the flex is quite, quite deliberate; after all, she knows just how vain he is. It’s very male, the arrogant display of muscle. She understands. The years might have made him a little heavier and stockier, but, tall and strong as he is, Boyd is long-limbed and built for endurance and stamina, not for compact, brute strength; his wide, powerful shoulders are the one notable exception. And he likes to show them off, whether under his immaculately-tailored suit jackets, or completely exposed.

He relaxes again and she moves her hands lower, massaging his back. “I don’t know about you,” Grace admits. “But this is definitely working for me.”

Boyd’s reply is muffled. “Oh, it’s working for me, too. Don’t you worry about that.”

She can feel his ribs under her palms. Broad ribcage, also very male. She goes lower, reaching the small of his back, the base of his spine. “I can stop if you want me to.”

“Do you hear me complaining?”

With a slight smirk she says, “Not anymore.”

“Well, then.”

Lower still, inciting her into a mischievous, “I have to say, you have a very nice backside, Boyd. I’ve always thought so.”

Wry and still muffled, the answer is a glib, “Thank you.”

“Mm. Very… trim.”

“Are you objectifying me, Doctor?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Fair enough,” he says. After a moment, he asks, “So it’s okay for you to make salacious comments about my arse, but if I was to do the same about your tits…”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of double-standards, Boyd. And my phraseology is far more elegant than yours.”

“Grace?”

Just about to start on his thighs, she pauses. “What?”

“You have magnificent… breasts,” he says, still very muffled. Before she can say anything, he adds, “Fucking magnificent.”

She slaps the nearest thigh in protest. “Stop it. You’re not funny.”

Boyd rolls onto his side, catches her hand in his and draws it to him. Delicately, he kisses the inside of her wrist. “Not even a little bit funny?”

“Schoolboy humour has a place. In the playground.”

He tilts his head slightly, patently not sure if she’s genuinely annoyed with him or not. He seems to decide to err on the side of caution, because he says, “All right. I apologise for the obscenity. But not for the observation.”

Grace relents, settling down next to him. For a moment they gaze at each other, neither saying a word. It is Boyd who breaks the silence with, “I don’t mean to… offend you. I just… Oh, I don’t know. Sex isn’t a solemn religious rite, is it? It’s supposed to be fun. What’s the point in being twee about it? I hate bloody stupid euphemisms and I just can’t to the whole… talking thing… the way you can.”

“I know that. But sometimes you behave like it’s just one big, crude joke to you.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s what you think?”

“That’s the impression you give.”

She sees that impact on him, sees it banish the remaining hint of a grin from his face. He looks strangely puzzled, and she hears it in his voice as he says, “You don’t really think that, surely? Christ, Grace, do you really not know how much I love you? What do you think this is for me? Some kind of temporary thing? A pleasant diversion until something else comes along?”

His frankness startles her. Startles her and puts her off-balance. Suddenly vulnerable, Grace shakes her head, “I don’t know, Peter. Sometimes I just don’t know.”

“Seriously?” Boyd asks, sounding incredulous. “Oh, Grace… come on. We’ve been friends for years, and you still don’t know me better than that? When we went into this – “

“When we went into this,” Grace says, cutting him short, “We said we’d give it a chance. See where it took us. I don’t remember any discussions about the long-term future. Do you?”

Boyd sits up, long fingers raking through his now-dry hair in a clear gesture of frustration. “How the hell did we get into this?”

Grace says nothing. Probably, anything she says now will spark an explosion of temper that will bring the whole evening to a very bloody and premature end. He looks down at her, oddly impassive. Then he shakes his head impatiently. “Right. Are you listening to me, Grace? I’m only going to say this once. Listening?”

She nods very slightly. “Listening.”

“This is not some casual fling,” he says, his voice very level, very controlled. “It’s not another notch on my bedpost, or a bit of illicit fun with a colleague. It took us years to get this far – literally bloody years – and I’m too stubborn to let it get screwed up because one of us can’t find the right words and the other one can’t deal with their insecurities. Christ knows I’m not the half the man you deserve, but I do my best. I’m not going anywhere, Grace. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not next week. Somehow you have to force yourself to believe that.”

“I try,” Grace says, almost in a whisper. “I want to believe it. I really do. You mean everything to me… if I lost you now…”

“Not going anywhere, Grace,” Boyd repeats, the calm just beginning to ebb, impatience taking its place. “Christ, this is pointless. It’s like talking to a brick wall. What do you want me to do, Grace? Put a ring on your damned finger? Because if it’ll stop all this nonsense for once and for all, I bloody will.”

She stares at him, not sure if she’s angry, amused or frustrated. His dark brows are drawn down into a very forbidding sort of glare, one that never fails to intimidate, and the eyes beneath them have become as flat and unyielding as gunmetal. More by accident than design she says, “Did you just propose to me?”

“No,” Boyd says gruffly. There’s a tiny pause. “Why, were you going to accept?”

“Might have done,” she replies, aware that the tension between them is beginning to ease.

“I’ll file that away for future reference,” Boyd tells her, his dark glare beginning to abate. He waits a beat, then adds, “Would you like to fight some more… or can we actually get around to having sex now?”

Pointedly, she looks him up and down and says, “It appears that one of us isn’t up for it anymore.”

He winces. “Ouch, Grace. That was a low blow.”

“It was meant to be.”

“You are so – “

“Yes?” Grace asks, eyebrows raised.

Boyd grins, and it’s the artless, boyish grin that’s quite simply one of his very best weapons. “ – incredibly beautiful.”

“Good save, Boyd.”

“Thank you.”

She pokes his hip. Hard. “Bad-tempered, cantankerous idiot.”

He bares his teeth at her. “Exasperating, garrulous old crone.”

Grace laughs. “God, I love you.”

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

The pitch of his voice drops as he says, “Because, Doctor Foley, I’m utterly determined to get laid tonight, and with your involvement I can absolutely guarantee a truly spectacular resurrection.”

Archly, she says, “And it’s my _hand_ you want? That’s rather… unadventurous… of you.”

“Please feel free to improvise,” Boyd says, leaning back on his elbows. The dark eyes that watch her are burning again, the flintiness gone from them. “That was me being euphemistic, by the way.”

“I gathered. It doesn’t suit you.”

“My point entirely,” he tells her complacently. “Grace…?”

“Boyd.”

“Euphemistically…”

“Yes?”

He baulks at the look she gives him. “Never mind.”

Not for the first time that evening, Grave takes the opportunity to revel in a moment of triumph. Teasing him is an art – the trick is to get under his skin and needle him without actually provoking his fearsome temper. She’s had years of practice and she considers herself something of an expert at it. It’s a dangerous and exciting sport and she suspects he knows just how much she enjoys it.

She sits up, facing him, hip against his thigh. “Are we going to grow old… older… together?”

“We are,” Boyd says easily. “But I will always be younger than you.”

“That’s all right,” Grace says, not rising to the gentle barb. “That just means you can push me around in my wheelchair when the time comes. Cursing and complaining.”

“While you berate me for it. Which I won’t hear, of course, because I fully intend to be deaf as a post by then. Just to annoy you.”

“You’re going to be a spectacularly grumpy old man, Boyd.”

“I’m already a spectacularly grumpy old man, Grace,” he points out. “You won’t notice the difference.”

She smiles at him, absurdly happy for no particular reason. Putting a hand on his stomach, she says, “It’s your turn to lie back and think of England.”

Obediently, he drops back against the mattress, hands going back behind his head. Easing across him, she kisses his chest gently, lingeringly; pleased by the way he shivers in involuntarily reaction. She moves the hand that’s resting on his stomach, sliding it lower, but before she can touch him, he deftly intercepts her, fingers closing around her wrist. Bemused, she looks up at him, trying to decipher his expression. He says, “Actually, I think we should take a back to basics approach.”

Grace frowns, not sure what he means, but he simply smiles and pulls her up for a kiss that is gentle, slow and incredibly thorough. As the heat in her own body starts to rise again, she understands. He’s tired of the banter, tired of the games, and as the kiss lengthens she can feel him hardening against her. Not breaking the kiss for a moment, he rolls them over; it’s done lazily, easily, but with considerable finesse, and abruptly she’s beneath him, relishing the weight of his body on hers. She puts her hands on his shoulders, lets them roam randomly across the familiar contours of muscle and bone.

With a final caress of his lips on hers, he draws back a little, just enough to be able to gaze solemnly down at her, and for a moment she is completely lost in the mesmerising depths of his dark eyes. His voice is deep, quiet, soft as velvet. “ _‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.’_ “

Blank and incredulous, Grace stares at him. Eventually manages an unimaginative, “ _Hamlet_.”

“Mm,” he agrees, still gazing at her.

“Peter – “ she starts, still stunned.

“Don’t say a word,” he interrupts, shifting slightly and taking most of his weight on his elbows, giving her a respite she didn’t know she needed. “Just for once, Grace… keep your mouth shut, hmm? Otherwise I may die from the sheer embarrassment.”

To Grace, silence is completely counter-intuitive, but somehow she manages. Staring wordlessly, she strokes his hair, enchanted by the way it gleams pure silver in the gentle light from the bedside lamp. So thick, so dense, and yet so soft. Boyd lowers his head, kisses her again delicately, a very tender caress. “ _‘Never doubt I love.’_ “

Fancifully, she imagines those words burning into her, becoming a permanent brand on her heart. His mark, indelible and glorious. The thoughts disappear in sensation as their mouths meet, the intensity rising once again in both of them. When he moves to kiss her throat, Grace says the only word either of them wants to hear: “Now.”

Boyd doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate. He simply bears down with a warm, muscular thigh, and she yields without a murmur, laying herself open to him as he moves into position, the merest hint of his renewed hardness brushing against her. It’s enough to make her whimper, to make her arch her hips up at him. Boyd bites her neck as he starts to move against her, not yet attempting to drive himself home, and Grace welcomes it, moaning unashamedly at the wild mixture of sensations racing through her body. He shifts his hips again, finds the right angle and starts to push forward. She inhales sharply, fingers digging into his shoulders. Boyd pulls back, rocks forward, pulls back again. Every stroke is measured, designed to make her acutely aware of the length and girth of him as he eases ever-deeper inside her.

This is his absolute forte, this slow, inexorable possession of her body. He’s not rough, he’s not impatient, but he is potent, relentless and totally in control – and while she is caught so spellbound Grace can only exult in his prowess. Sometimes sex is just sex, a pleasant enough diversion but a totally physical thing driven more by his libido than by anything else. This is not just sex. This is love; this is his mastery of her body and her possession of his soul; this is everything they are, given freely, taken greedily.

Heat. Musk. Muscle. Sweat. So many things, so many sensations. Moving shadows on the walls, the heavy scent in the air, the curve of his spine, the pounding of her blood. She bites his shoulder, makes him swear. He grasps her breast, squeezes her nipple. She gasps and tightens herself around him, and he drives himself as far into her as he can, locking them inescapably together before coming to an absolute halt.

Inordinately gentle, Grace strokes his face, enjoying the contrast between soft skin and rough stubble. Boyd turns his head, kisses her palm, every bit as gentle as she is, and then he starts to move again, setting a slow, steady rhythm that’s easy to meet, to match, but she knows he won’t remain so measured for long. She’s right. He picks up the pace a little, pushing her to go with him. His palms are on the mattress, and he straightens his arms, locking his elbows as he closes his eyes and inclines his head back. She wonders how it feels for him, wonders what thoughts chase through his head as he thrusts into her. Wonders if he thinks the same things about her.

Maybe in a flash of clairvoyance, he says, “Jesus… feel what you do to me, woman… no other man could be as fucking hard for you…”

This is not one of the times Grace is going to chastise him for being too blunt, too forthright. On the contrary, his words send a sharp, delicious shiver down the length of her spine and she moves her hands to his hips, intent on pulling him into her as deeply as she can. And Boyd is not the only one who can be candid. Huskily, she says, “No other man’s ever come close…”

He leans back a little forcing her to relinquish her hold, and then hooks his arms under her legs and pulls them up; the momentary discomfort immediately eclipsed by the intensity of what Grace feels as he somehow manages to force himself even deeper into her. She grips the rumpled bedcovers beneath her, a tight, sweaty, desperate grip that’s accompanied by an involuntary cry as he withdraws and thrusts again, hard.

“If you play with fire,” Boyd says, the strain in his voice easily matched by the wildness in his eyes, “don’t be surprised if you get burned…”

“Burn me,” she challenges, intensely stimulated by his sudden roughness. “Go on… make me feel it.”

The answering growl comes dangerously close to being a snarl, again backed up by a lot of teeth. The stray frisson of fear that races through her is entirely lost in the primitive response of her body as Boyd drives into her even faster, even harder. The sweat is gleaming on his skin, the sinews in his neck are standing out and she doubts he will be able to hold on for much longer unless he drops the pace again, and the thought causes a foolish edge of anxiety. One that is swept away as he reaches down to where their bodies meet. Clever, dextrous fingers go to work, helping to focus the mounting pressure.

Again he growls at her, but this time there are words, too. “Feeling it?”

“Yes…” she manages. “Christ, yes… Peter…”

For the second time that evening her body starts to tense involuntarily, tiny spasms starting here and there as her heart races and her lungs struggle to pull in oxygen fast enough. Grace grits her teeth, claws more desperately at the bedcovers, words breaking out of her without conscious thought. “Peter… Christ, Peter…”

He doesn’t appear to hear her. She can see his taut throat, feel his bunched biceps, but it’s inside, deep inside, that she can feel just how close he is to breaking. His rhythm changes, becomes sharper, less controlled, and it’s the final push Grace needs. The building tension shatters and she’s sobbing and laughing and moaning as each thrust of his body drives her through the powerful release, and as she shudders and arches and cries out, he hits the peak, too – in exactly the same manner as he does everything else; fiercely, boisterously and very loudly. He bucks into her, fingers digging into her thighs as he roars into the last few disjointed thrusts. Momentarily, they are lost, the pair of them.

Boyd collapses forwards onto her as if poleaxed, head coming to rest against her neck, his weight bearing down on her in a not altogether unwelcome way. Grace puts her arms round him, holds him tightly, possessively, not caring how heavy he is, or how out of breath they both are. This is her moment. This is always her moment. The moment when he is still too lost and too stupidly dazed to do a thing, the moment when she holds, she comforts and she would fight tooth and nail for both of them against any threat, any adversary.

He moves slightly, taking some of his weight back on his elbows, and he kisses her neck softly, tenderly. The huskiness is back in his deep voice as he asks quietly, “You all right?”

With one languid hand she strokes his hair, moves her head enough to kiss his temple. “Fine.”

He chuckles softly, doesn’t move. “You can massage my ego a little more than that, if you like.”

“It doesn’t need it, Boyd. Trust me.”

Strangely acquiescent, he disengages, rolls to lie next to her. “If you say so, Grace. If you say so.”

She curls against him, pleased when he automatically draws her close and kisses the top of her head. He’s calm, placid; a big, gentle man that despite her occasional insecurity she knows in her heart she can trust implicitly, and she loves him. Loves him unreservedly for everything he is, the good and the bad, the fierce and the tender. She feels rather than hears his deep sigh and asks indulgently, “What?”

“Shall we go and sleep in the spare room? The bed seems to be a bit… trashed.”

Grace chuckles. “Wait until you see the bathroom. I guarantee you’re going to throw a fit.”

“Jolly good.”

She eases up on an elbow, pats the bedcovers experimentally. “Actually, everything’s more or less dried out.”

“More or less?”

“It’s sleepable in. And it’s entirely your own fault. Dragging me out of the bath…”

“Bollocks,” he says, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed.

“Yet another articulate and incredibly well-reasoned argument from Peter Boyd.”

He stretches, yawns. “Just… get under the bloody covers. We’ll sort it all out in the morning.”

“Good plan,” Grace says, happy to accede. She does so, making herself comfortable on what she unconsciously regards as her side of the bed. “Boyd?”

“Mm?”

“Did you mean it?”

He glances round at her. “What?”

“About putting a ring on my finger?”

Boyd gazes at her for a very long moment before reaching across to switch off the bedside lamp. The room is immediately plunged into darkness, and she can feel not see him getting under the covers next to her. He says, “Good night, Grace.”

She smiles to herself, not remotely upset by his refusal to answer the question. Edging up against his warm back, she kisses his shoulder, replies solemnly, “Good night, Peter.”

There is a long pause. Followed by, “What do you mean, ‘wait until you see the bathroom’?”

“You’ll see,” Grace says, absolutely serene.

-oOo-

The answer takes four days to arrive. When it does, it appears in her in-tray. An official brown envelope, complete with Metropolitan Police crest and CCU stamp. The sort of envelope confidential reports arrive sealed in. Her own name and Boyd’s signature are quite clear. Whatever is in the envelope is not a report. Grace pokes it suspiciously and glances towards his office. No sign of him. No sign of him anywhere, in fact. Not a good indication. Gingerly, as if fearing the contents will bite, she opens the envelope.

The contents are initially disappointing. A compliments slip from the office of one Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd, and a small anonymous cardboard box. Entirely the wrong shape for a ring, naturally enough. She contemplates putting it aside, playing him at his own game, but her curiosity is far too strong. It’s not a jeweller’s box. In fact, at a guess it has been liberated from the CCU’s evidence store.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” she mutters to herself, glancing round to see if anyone is watching. Spencer is in the squad room, head down over whatever he’s working on, but there’s no-one else in sight.

Grace takes the gamble, opens the box. Is met by the dull, expensive gleam of antique gold. Not a ring, but a heavy chain bearing a pendant. Heart-shaped. Which almost certainly made him wince before buying it anyway. Grace lets the heavy chain run through her fingers, the gold warming at her touch. Expensive, no doubt about it. She holds it up, watching the way it gleams under the harsh artificial light. The pendant revolves naturally, and she finally spots the engraving on the reverse.

She doesn’t need to read it. But she does anyway, mouthing the words softly. “ _‘But never doubt I love’._ ”

Shakespeare. Not _The Tempest_ , but _Hamlet_.

_‘Doubt thou the stars are fire,_  
Doubt that the sun doth move,  
Doubt truth to be a liar,  
But never doubt I love.’

And Boyd is still nowhere in sight. Which, Grace reflects, is perhaps just as well, because at that particular moment he couldn’t give her a glare fierce enough to stop her kissing him senseless.

– the end –

_Gemenied’s request: “…bathtub, typical Boyd, surprise, spilled wine and some fancy bath stuff.”_

**Author's Note:**

> This story was previously available at FFN.


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